


Something in the Air

by Unovis



Category: Highlander: The Series, Torchwood
Genre: Crossing Timelines, M/M, Sex Pollen, Walk Into A Bar, bar story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 23:46:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unovis/pseuds/Unovis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spicy. Contains suspenders of belief-stretching-but-not-snapping coincidence and a classic plot cliché, but also happy, horny Methos, if you like that sort of thing.<br/>A re-post from 2008. Working my way through my old bar stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something in the Air

***

Methos did not have a heart of gold. A chewy caramel center, a marasca cherry beating like a crimson, brandied jewel inside his chest, perhaps, but gold--no.

He was not good, he was not kind, his hide did not hide sweetness underneath. (He licked the salt crystals from a fat pretzel stick and smacked his lips.) He was curious, greedy, and cautious as a cat. Under it all. Over his beer. On his squeaky barstool. 

He was bored and restless today. If memory served, how he felt was randy as a stoat. No idea why, unless there was something on the wind. Something was hollering up his rain barrel, pissing on his shoes, blowing down his neck. Something was opening his nose. He sniffed. He sneezed. Joe laughed.

"I'd say God Bless but my tongue might fall off."

"No loss, then. Pull us another beer."

"For you and the tapeworm?" Joe hitched over to the taps. He was moving gingerly today, like a stork with a sore hip. Something in the air, on the wind.

"Take a load off. Drink with me," said Methos. He twisted back and forth on the barstool, making it squeal. "Talk to me. I'm bored." He looked around the saloon, down the counter: the place was nearly empty, the waitstaff yet to arrive. Noon in a Paris bar, on a fresh and clear June day--the catacombs might be more crowded, or the sewers. He sniffed again. Man alone at a table in the corner, smoking and writing on a newspaper. Looked like a pile of dry leaves. Gertie at the end of the bar, talking to her new girl. Old Drouais picking at his wrist and staring at the mirror. Les touristes américains, Mom and Pop, puzzling over a cell phone and a map. To choose, to choose, if he had to choose... He squinted over the rim of his glass. What would dry leaves do, if he made an offer? If he walked over and laid it on the table, smiled, stilled his writing hand. Come, share with me your newspaper, your tabac crumbs, your darkened sitting room. Take me to your worn plush couch. We'll kick aside the dishes on the floor, the piled paperbacks and pencil shavings, the dented, empty cans. I'll bend, I'll open, my jeans around my knees, my T-shirt rolled up to my shoulder blades your calloused hands, your ragged nails, your rough push down and deep.

He shifted. The barstool squealed. Dry leaves scratched himself.

Gertie was wide and round and gold as a brioche, her new friend full and pumpernickel dark. Bakers, they could be, bakers with dough and rolling pins and floury white sheets. Squeezed between the two of them against the kitchen board, hot by the oven, kneaded, pinched and pulled, stuffed, fingers pressing into dampness, buttery fingers stretching into him, apples apples bouncing from the bowl onto the floor... He sucked in a ragged breath. Oh, tarte aux pommes, oh women ripe, oh God, oh Julia, yes...

"Penny for your thoughts. Do I want to know?" Joe leaned across the bar. "Look a little flushed there, Buddy."

"Pup...pup..," he said, absently; he dropped a hand into his lap and squeezed himself against his thigh. The denim rasped, the chair complained. Gertie slapped the bar and laughed, leaning back, and her friend grabbed her by the knee. Pumpernickel raisin and soft cheese.

Joe took away his empty glass. "Not a chance, Pal." He refilled the mug and pushed it back to Methos's waiting hand.

"I've known stranger things." He had, he had. He could retreat to some comfortable surface, fitly, stiffly pricked, and play back memories more readily available, more varied and intense than any vid. More lonely. He'd appreciate, at least, a helping hand. He blinked at old Drouais and tried to picture him naked on his barstool. On a beach. On a park bench, feeding squirrels. On...

"Something in the air today," said Joe. "Global warming. A solar wind. Got everyone's shorts in a twist."

The tourists had left before he could imagine them led astray by a Parisian sybarite. Tant pis. He flicked a look at Joe and back at his beer. Wouldn't be the first time he'd imagined. He stretched his lips into a smile and Joe snorted.

"Not a chance."

"Ah, come on, Joe. Give an old pervert a thrill."

"I'll pervert you."

"You could, you absolutely could. Here and now, onstage, whaddaya say? They paid well and high for it in old Cumae." He plucked the neck of his T-shirt away from his throat and winked. A laugh as good as a lay, sometimes.

"High is right. Who'd buy your bony carcass? They'd pay to shut you up, more like it."

"My mouth was often full," Methos agreed, amiably. There was a crease between Joe's brows he'd like to smooth away, with his thumbs, with his lips. Joe flapped the bar towel at him and moved down the bar, away to the land of laughing women. Ménage à quatre? thought Methos after him.

He squeezed himself again, regretfully, and sucked from his mug. He could venture out into the dangerous world, hunting his desire; or he could stay and drink and grumble on his stool and see what the world might deliver to him. He had, at least, a nice firm advertisement for anyone marketing. He squeezed, and squirmed to a more comfortable arrangement, and the bar door opened wide. The light streamed in from the street on a wave of Presence that flooded over him, got in his eyes, in his nose, up his pantleg, around his balls. "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he sang out, in gratitude. He looked at the approaching silhouettes. "Who's your friend?"

The shadow separated, seeming a bit taller, a bit broader than MacLeod, in a similarly unseasonable coat. The man flashed a grin, all white teeth and chiseled chin and dimples and bright eyes. "Captain Jack Harkness," said MacLeod and "Call me Jack," said the man, pressing into Mac's back. "Pleased to meet you." He grasped Methos by the hand, wrapped his hand tight around Methos's like a rubber squid around a clam and pulled him in.

"Stop it," said MacLeod, testily, trapped between.

"Pup...pup...," said Methos.

"Pepper? Oh, tell me it's not Doctor." He swept up Methos's body in his glance, he smiled broadly at the advertisement. "Oh, tell me that's for me!"

"We need to talk. Break it up," said MacLeod, pushing at their arms.

"Threesome?" asked Methos, clinging like death.

"Absolutely!" said Jack. "Who with?"

"Pick up your cues, Mac," said Methos, Methos firmly detached from Jack by an unsunny, unsettled MacLeod. What was twisting shorts today had also twisted Mac, but not cheerfully. Oh, step aside and let me through, thought Methos. That's a bang with a bow on it, you daft lowering Scot, and if you don't want it, I do. "The name's Adam. We can order in. Or do with two. Two's adequate." He could not keep a smile off his face. Catnip, come to cat.

"Enough!" rumbled Duncan. "Over there, go, sit." He nodded at a booth in the back in the corner in the dark -- Methos slid from the stool, tugged discreetly at his crotch, and sauntered over, happy he'd tucked his shirt in today, happy he'd left the bagging pullover at home. Come and get it, sailor Jack. And damned if he didn't, damned if there wasn't that broad, curving hand suddenly snug against his arse, giving a nice cup and squeeze. He laughed, Jack laughed behind him, and Methos wondered, if they both broke and ran for the bog, could they could make it before Mac cut them down? "I'll show you a trick I picked up in Milwaukee," murmured Jack in his ear. "Take me home and you can split me like a melon," muttered Methos, leaning back into the hand, two hands now, the other creeping round his waist.

"I'll turn the hose on the pair of you," growled Joe from the bar, and the women saluted and cheered. "Something in the air!"

"This is where I come for help," said MacLeod, pushing by them with bottles in his hands.

"At your service," said Jack, fingertips hovering over the button-bumpy swell of Methos's fly. "But unless the world is in imminent peril..." he cocked an eyebrow at Duncan "It's not, is it?"

"Sit," said Duncan.

"Marauders, fear, famine, death? I'll bet he's good at that," he confided to Methos, giving a peachy squeeze. "Save the world, win a prize. Better him than me."

"Couldn't be in better hands," Methos agreed, licking his canines. "But you can save me."

"...because if not, there's no harm in a grope before a gab." He squeezed again, almost absently, smiling over Methos's shoulder into stormy brows. "Two hours, say, then meet you back? An hour, no? Twenty minutes, for pity's sake?"

"Works for me," said Methos, adding his pleading mite. "Alley out back, lovely bricks, no rats, be in, out in a flash, nice and relaxed, ready to focus...." Methos edged them both in the desired direction, smiling, backing, backing happily into Jack's solid, welcoming bulk, back and away.

"It'll keep," said Duncan cock-blockingly, twisting the cap from a bottle of Perrier.

"Reconsidering that threesome?"

"Comedians. Save the world my....sit and shut up." Under his breath, under his scowl, he muttered at Methos, "And since when do you drag men into the alley?"

"Since now," frowned Methos, easing carefully onto a hard damn chair crowded by Duncan's knee, crowded in other uncomfortable ways, which was not making the problem subside. "You're a cold and unfeeling man."

"Not so cold, I believe," said Jack, sitting opposite at the end of the booth, opening out of his coat, leaning his knees wide beneath the table, offering a view, boxing in MacLeod.

"Oh, tell me...," Methos began, and Duncan snapped a jackknife open like a conjuring trick.

"Watch," he said, and reached for Jack's hand.

"Let's not and say we did," said Jack, pulling away; but Duncan held firm.

"Do you feel anything from him?" he asked Methos.

"I'm begging you, Mac!"

"He does that well," said Jack, pulling harder. "Think what we three..."

"Watch," said Duncan again, and drew the knife, delicately, considering how Jack was twisting away, across the ball of Jack's thumb. They three stopped and looked at the blood bead up and well over, dripping onto the beer coaster. "Wait," said Duncan, less certainly. The blood dripped dark and red. Duncan released Jack's wrist. Methos handed him a napkin. "Are we engaged?" asked Jack.

"Impossible!" hissed Duncan. Jack sucked his thumb. "I swear to you, I've seen him die. I saw him shot not an hour ago on the rue Chapitre."

"Mistaken identity," offered Jack.

"Evil twin!" crowed Methos. "Please! Say this mystery twin arose and is out there, awaiting me. Or you, or you," he said, generously. "Your face will freeze like that, MacLeod, and you'll scare all the girls away."

Up came Duncan's finger, aimed like a ram at Jack's broad chest. "I know this man; I knew him in London, in Brooklyn; in 1941, in '56, and now today."

"I've never been to 1956."

"I have," said Methos. "Bad vintage. Speaking of wine and ivy..."

"You're mad, the pair of you."

"We're merry as grigs; you're the sour old man. Come away, and let us put a smile on your face."

"Away," said Jack. "Recompense for blooding me. Your eyes are like stars; I have an apartment."

"Phone," called Joe.

Duncan glared at Jack. "I will..."

"Mac, phone." Joe waggled the receiver, at the bar.

"I will get to the bottom of this," said Duncan. And to a chorus of "Oooooooooooo," he stood and pushed Methos from his way and stalked off to Joe, to the phone, calling for reinforcements stronger than water.

"Come, come," whispered Jack, pulling Methos onto the bench against his side; with a hand hooked on Methos's thigh and another against his belly, he kissed him, hot wet and sweet. Like a draft of palm wine in the desert. Like pomegranate juice from a golden bowl.

A squeeze to his ear brought Methos to air; Jack looked at Duncan's back, hunched over the bar. Methos looked at Jack. Without turning, letting the warmth bloom in his voice, Jack said, "Hugi'eia, Metos."

"From the wind's sweet rising, from the pricking in my prick, I should have guessed. Salve, Jacobus. Mac doesn't know?"

"He's so beautifully intent. Let him wrestle with it."

A strong hand drove up the inside of Methos's thigh, dark under the table wood, knuckling and gripping and making him moan. There were limits to Joe's tolerance. Which would, with any luck, be further stretched, but there was that niggling matter of the second Jack. "Evil twin?" he repeated. He kept his hand under the overcoat, his thumbnail dancing caracoles across Jack's breast; he clamped his thighs around the twisting fist.

"As if, my friend. Future me, most likely."

"Immortal, then?"

"I only hope. Ask me if you see me. But not now, yes? And not in my company?"

"Did you know Mac in '41?"

"Briefly, but well."

"God bless us, every one." Boiled him like green walnuts he must have, to soften up that pouch. If anyone could, then Jack. They used to think that of me, mourned Methos (though no one truly did). It was hard work, cracking some nuts, as witness the rock MacLeod. And the thought of soft walnuts boiled green in the shell and cupped in his hand made his besieged pecker bounce. He raised his bottle in salute and across caught a pointed glance from Duncan, hunkered close with Joe. "Was he happy when you knew him?"

"Hot as a tiger. There's a bit of the old spark left; shall I fan the flames?"

Methos shot his answer without thought: "Me first." He squirmed on the bench, he sniffed deep and hard. "Joe's right. There's something in the air."

"Funny you should mention," laughed Jack, round and ground and hot in Methos's lap, whishing in Methos's ear. "Cargo crash, not far away. Luxury salvage, leaking as we speak. I was on the trail when I was so hebridecally waylaid. Get MacLeod off my back and I'll cut you in."

The luxury, considered Methos, in that top liquid layer of his mind still capable of thought, was having a Mac on your back and to spare. All that glisters isn't gold. "And that other you? After the same? Pursued and shot?"

Jack tweaked his nipple. "Shan't worry about that; whatever I'll do will have been done as far as I'm concerned." He pulled his fist from Methos's crotch like a pit plucked from a peach. "Pull up your socks; here's Dad."

It was Duncan returning empty handed, more was the pity. Duncan returning in umbrage; did the man not have a nose? A heart? Two stones and a twig, two eggs and a rod, two apricots and a banana? with a twinkling cherry on top? Duncan stood at the table's edge, sadly out of reach. "Joe doesn't know who or what you are and doesn't care." He bent a look back, but spoiled his grumble with a fond curve of his lips. Joe leaned at ease in the land of women, cane rakishly against his leg, laughing and flashing his teeth. "But believe me, I do. Who are you, Jack?"

"Duncan, laddie. You know me."

"I thought I did."

"You kissed me in the moonlight."

There, a twitch, and a nostril flared. If Methos had a tail, he would have flicked it, watching him.

"And more than kissed, if I recall," Jack pursued

"Since when do you kiss Captains in the moonlight?" muttered Methos.

"Since now?" asked Jack, pinching Methos's nipple again, making him jump.

"Less of it, Jack. What are you?"

"Short of time!" Jack roared, and slapped the table. Stupid, thought Methos, as Duncan's hand came down across Jack's arm to pin it there, as Duncan leaned across so they were nose to nose now, nearly teeth to teeth, the two of them. "Are you made of brass, Duncan MacLeod?" complained Jack. "Have you a nose at all?"

"I can smell the wind change. I can smell something twisting in it." And dark, dark his eyes were, looking into Jack's. Struck, locked, and hard together, the three of them at that table, hands on each other in a braid of need, breathing hot. And then, miracle of miracles, Duncan inhaled. ...And then, before God and Joe and tabac leaves and old Drouais and Methos open-mouthed, MacLeod closed the scant inch between his lips and Jack's and... and...

Methos bit his lip, tasting it, wanting it, three mouths, not two. He whined in want and Duncan growled, so their lips must have buzzed together... "Come with me. Now."

"And me!" whistled Methos.

And Jack, pinned, he knew, between greed and sex and who knows whatever gain outside that table, licked his lips. And Duncan kissed him again, wet and hot and bringing them all standing with fists wound in each other's clothes, standing in a kick of chairs and table bruising thighs and an indignant cry from Joe and God and Methos, wanting in.

"In an hour," whispered Jack. "I swear I'll be back."

"Now or not at all," growled Duncan.

"Lock the doors and windows, we'll do it on the floor. Last call," said Methos.

And Jack, sweet-mouthed, dazzling Jack, said... "You drive a hard bargain, MacLeod." And Methos, bursting, cheered.

***and ten minutes later, in the humming outside air, while Methos and Jack wrestled with the Porsche's seats...***

"Like that?" asked Duncan.

"Like that, very well, like that," said the other Captain Jack, burring through his mobile phone. "All over but the fireworks. Keep me plied with flesh and drink and questions so I'll miss the mark."

"Do you know if you'll get it?"

"I know _that_ Jack won't, because I--say he--dallies with you; I know it's better in my hands now than the people he planned to sell it to, or anyone else. I don't know what will happen to it, except it's gone when he gets there, and I hope to all that's blessed that I'm the one who takes it..."

"Instead of him. You. You're a bastard, Jack."

"Do you need to know more? Save it, save it. Save it for him, tonight."

"But you're here."

"But I'm there. I'm happy then, I'm free, I'm mortal, and I'm about to bang the two of you like Christmas. And there's Methos, Duncan. Happy, horny Methos is not to be missed."

"If I'd rather be with you? This you? The '56, not the '41?"

"Sorry, sailor. I'm on the job. Tomorrow, maybe. If you can still walk."

"Ah," said Duncan. "The sacrifices I make."

"Breathe deep and think of Brooklyn," laughed Jack, ringing off.

And Duncan did just that.

***

**Author's Note:**

> First posted mid-January 2008.  
> Carene and Jay Tryfanstone saw and commented on bits of this as it emerged.


End file.
